Destination Nowhere
by Sucaretto
Summary: There's no way to know who the real you is. Akihito, a photography student, struggles to find himself within his own mind. Asami fights his own demons as he tries to fulfill one last dying wish. When their paths cross, reality turns into a sea of illusions.
1. Prologue - The Inverted Sun

**Pairing: **_Asami x Akihito (so far)_

**Rating:** _PG-13 (__Prologue__); M/NC-17 (__later chapters__)_

**Summary:**_There's no way to know who the real you is. Akihito, a photography student, struggles to find himself within his own mind. Asami fights his own demons as he tries to fulfil one last dying wish. When their paths cross, reality turns into a sea of illusions._

**Warnings:** _Possible spoilers for minor situations, nothing major; smex (for what else should I write fanfiction? :P)__; AU with possible OOC._

**Disclaimer:**_ The characters from the Finder series do NOT belong to me. This also applies to anything related to this series. Any similarity with real world situations is pure coincidence._

**Author's note: **_This is the first time I'm writing a Finder fanfic. I'm an avid reader of others works and this time I wanted to try publishing something mine. I have a passion for stories that explores the human mind, unusual situations and drama. The plot for this fic might be confusing but that's my purpose (and you want to kick me now… haha). __Hope you will enjoy it! Reviews are love.  
_

_**Edit:** I found a beta! Thank you so much TheSnarkyAuthor! There are some minor changes to the previous version of this prologue (I didn't touch the plot though). _

Destination Nowhere

Prologue – _The Inverted Sun_

_Run_. It was the only thing his mind could process that moment. _Run_. As fast as he could, even though his legs were becoming heavier and heavier as fatigue consumed him. His feet were begging for some rest, his fingers cramping one after another. But he only knew he needed to run away before he was dragged back.

It was a cold winter night. Weather forecasts a little earlier didn't mention the strong, piercing gusts that were now ripping countless leaves of all sizes from their mother branches. Snow fell like tiny pieces of virgin cotton thrown by innocent children complementing their dances. Only a few stars hung high up in the sky near the nearly invisible moon, holding no purpose, not even to guide him to safety. At least he was grateful there was barely any light. Maybe, he could escape stealthily without drawing much attention. His friends wanted him to dye his hair blond, but he was glad he didn't comply with this idea.

_Run_. He had no time for distracting thoughts and needed to focus all his energies on his lower limbs. He just hoped there wasn't a stream nearby as he was blind to where he was stepping, and getting soaked would be a free ticket to hypothermia. Unless he had caught one already. His ripped jeans earned him many cuts from low branches, the denim tainted with a mixture of sweat and blood. His tank top resembled an old, worn towel wrapped around his torso yet providing no warmth at all. His slender arms, uncovered from the cold, were rigid and scarred just as his legs. His whole body was in pain. His whole body was in pain, screaming in agony, while it wept muted cries of torture muffled by the unyielding heavy steps he took towards his salvation, his desired freedom and utopia.

Why couldn't he run faster? Why was his pace decreasing? He had to get away before they seized him. Before things were too late. Maybe it already was. Was he so stupid and blind not to realize it sooner? And he had to witness… witness… no, he had already forgotten about it. There was nothing to be remembered. He had no memories or recollections of it. The present "he" is what was left of him. And right now, he just needed to run and never come back. He felt his throat clench, obstructing the air flow to his lungs. His heart was beating with such violence he thought it might break one or two of his ribs. He could no longer tell if it was just sweat or tears running down his cheeks. Nevertheless, there was only one password right now and it was spelled with three letters: _RUN_.

- "Do you think you can still escape?" – Someone yelled from afar. It was a deep dramatic voice, each word was as sharp a sword expertly swinging through the open air. Except it did hurt him. All the muscles and cells in his body trembled. He couldn't move. He knew that timbre but couldn't recognize who possessed such a powerful tone.

- "I can give you anything, more than I'll ever get. Why don't you understand?" – Danger. It was becoming louder, nearer, more strident. He had to gather courage to run. _"Just a little bit more"_ he mumbled, like a silent secret prayer.

- "You know I'll find you, don't you? I can imagine our sweet reunion."

True. He never escaped before. All his attempts were in vain. But he had hope this time. He would start all over again and no one was going to stop him. Or so he thought. Footsteps were echoing in a reverberating staccato and crescendo rhythm. Sweat ran down his forehead. He never felt the real meaning behind _fear_ until now. There was no looking back any more. He gathered the remaining fuel, his last scraps of energy, and ran.

At a distance, the tinkling sound of a gun finishing loading was heard. The shot resonated through the trees. The footsteps of someone running suddenly stopped.

*_*_*_*_*_*VF*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The aspiring flames of the silver lighter burnt the tip of the cigarette in Asami's hand almost instantly. The touch of that complete white stick was already wrong. He inhaled the smoke and put out the little object right away. What a headache. That's why he hated incompetent people. He made a mental note to call Kirishima and have him buy him the right _Dunhill_ he ordered before. He just wanted some distraction from those boring, monotonous, time consuming financial reports: profits, transactions from Europe, shipments of… stop. He was tired of all those bureaucracies and logistics. He made another mental note – call Suoh to buy his desired _Dunhill_ and make Kirishima deal with all the paper work.

His large office, decorated sparsely with barely any pieces of art and a deep black leather sofa with signs of starting to wear, now suffocated him with the stale air branded with tedious, ordinary smell of business that he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. The dual tone tie, alternating between thin gray lines almost mimicked the tone of the sky that day, and the ample blue stripes (that would catch anyone's attention), seemed like a collar. No matter how light that humble piece of garment was (and it was made of the purest silk), it felt like a weight on his chest, depriving him from the basic oxygen necessary for survival. His hand that was signing some papers he carefully read (although he didn't want to) dropped the fountain pen in a pile of outdated reports, a few tiny drops of dark ink staining the whiteness of the paper. His fingers automatically searched for the knot and skillfully, a couple of seconds later, the tie was hanging lifeless in his lap. He loosened the top buttons of his plain shirt, allowing some fresh air to brush over his now exposed collarbone.

He closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest, no matter how brief it was. Neither was he physically tired or fatigued. It was just the subtle weariness of the day that weighed on his shoulders with no way of dissipating. His silhouette revealed no signs of exhaustion. It exuded, instead, an aura that screamed power and dominance.

The harmonizing silence suddenly broke with a repeated ring louder than anything else that moment. It was his phone. He quickly pick it up, annoyed by the ear-piercing noise. The screen was blank. There was no name from his contacts list, a string of unrecognizable digits or even just one or two numbers. Just the blinking icon of an incoming call which seemed to have no end.

- "Asami speaking." – His voice was calm, giving no hints of his growing impatience of that anonymous call for disturbing his peaceful moment just now.

No one answered from the other side of the line. Not a single word, a sloppy greeting or even the wicked laughter of some kids playing a prank. It was almost as he didn't pick the phone. Or it was just an illusion from his mind. Right before he cut the connection, there was a faint sound, the hectic breathing he couldn't distinguish if it was coming from a woman or a man. It didn't matter too. He couldn't re-establish the call and wasn't intending to know the author of that unusual occurrence. Everyone had times when they simply dial the wrong number, though Asami never did.

As he grabbed the pen personally tailored for him, someone knocked at his office door and entered. After identifying the person as Kirishima, his most trusted and exclusive secretary, who has accompanied him for years since his major night club – _Sion_ – had opened.

- "Asami-sama…" – He carefully placed a pack of completely new and sealed _Dunhill_ on the desk.

The owner of the club smirked. He never regretted employing Kirishima. The man was smart and very observant of his surroundings.

- "… the Medical University Hospital called just a few moments ago."

The smirk in Asami's face vanished and was replaced by a much more serious expression, an undecipherable junction of curiosity and concern. He slightly nodded with his head as a signal for his employee to continue the message.

Kirishima was tall, and his broad shoulders often made people think of him as a bodyguard instead of doing secretarial work. The frameless glasses hanging perfectly on his face trembled somewhat, alongside his hesitation to deliver the rest of what he heard. It felt like if a lump was lodged in his throat yet his voice came out as he was speaking normally. – "Setsuko-san…"

Asami grabbed his coat and stormed out of the room. The _Dunhill_ was left forgotten near the half signed report.

*_*_*_*_*_*VF*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The apathetic looks of those accompanying the sick in the main lobby, the watery, pain-filled eyes behind those cotton sterilized masks, children running around with no intention to remain seated and wait to be called to the examination rooms, the frantic pace of the impeccably clean white coats and the dreadful smell of antiseptic, a medley of iodine, ethanol and hydrogen peroxide; all these reminded Asami why he hated hospitals so much. The place was a meeting place for the miserable, the suffering lot and all the hopeless whose life had shut its doors and the only remaining task for them to do was complain.

The entrepreneur ran to the information desk, his face and voice showing a calm demeanor though, as he politely requested for the whereabouts of a woman under the name of Setsuko. The nurse on duty, probably around her early twenties and still in her internship, felt intimidated by his presence and answered stuttering halfway through her words. It was hard to hear and make sense of the correct numbers with all the surrounding noise, but Asami managed to do so perfectly and was already rushing to the said room, leaving Kirishima to thank the inexperienced caregiver.

The dim lights in the intensive care ward made it seem like a gloomy, endless tunnel. The lifts were taking too long to go from one floor to another and a lot of people were waiting in the corridor to enter one. It was a particularly chaotic night, with a few patients admitted with serious injuries. Nurses were guessing about possible causes for it, ranging from suicide to purely home negligent accidents. There was a commotion in the air: doctors in the late shift giving orders, relatives crying and sobbing, all types of machines, each one of them with a different chime to it.

Asami glanced at his clock – three minutes had gone and he still hasn't arrived near the one he wanted to see. He was losing his patience.

- "Asami-sama, we are almost there." – It was true. As they turned right, the desired number came to their sight. The door was opened. Inside, a man in his mid-fifties was trying to pull a piece of paper the woman held with an extraordinary force. He had a small identification tag pinned to his white coat.

- "Dr. Yoshikawa, I'm Kirishima to whom you spoke this afternoon."

The man took a minute to process those words. The woman laid in the bed was the only patient of the room. The paleness of her face contrasted with her dark brown curly hair scattered around the pillow. Not a single scratch or scar spoiled her fair skin, almost perfect like a porcelain doll. She was a human version of the _Snow White_, waiting for her prince to wake her up from the deadly slumber and purge the poison with a kiss. Near her, the heart monitor beeped in regular intervals, the fluorescent green thin line going up and down, complemented with a flat artificial broken record of the same note that was everything less than reassuring.

The doctor in charge took a quick glance at Kirishima and turned his gaze to the man next to him. His eyes fixed in the powerful figure, scanning him from head to toes with so much attention and detail someone would normally try to avert that scrutiny. Asami, unlike others, stared with the same intensity, not losing a single inch of balance.

- "You must be Ryuichi then. I wasn't expecting to see you here so soon."

What was with that man calling him by his first name? Who told him anyway? – "What's her condition?" – Asami touched her hand that was gripping the crinkled paper. Her skin had a hint of warmth but it was barely noticeable through the cold layer. Her arm was limp, stripped from any strength yet her fingers held on stubbornly to that object, even if it meant she needed to protect it with her last breath.

- "Well…" – The doctor straightened his coat as he was trying to hide his loss for the right words. – "… she's in a comatose state. She was admitted last night with serious internal bleeding. We are not sure what the cause is."

Asami's broad shoulder stiffened and his feet became petrified at the appalling confession. – "Will she wake up?" – He caressed her skin receiving no response. Her pulse was so faint he couldn't distinguish if it was his own he was feeling.

- "Those who do not want to wake up, will remain asleep."

- "Pardon me?"

- "Those who choose to go, can't come back." – And left the room in feathery steps, almost as if he was floating. No further explanations were given and Kirishima thought his superior had grasped the entirety of the situation, requiring no more details.

- "Kirishima, go get me some cigarettes."

The secretary complied with the order although he knew no smoke could ease the agony of each passing second and the torment of being impotent as time slipped away in a much faster rhythm.

With no one else in the room, Asami approached the bed and sat on its edges. No change was registered in the heart monitor. He kissed her hand, a caress neither quick nor slow. It was tender and delicate, afraid she might break with the slightest contact. He ran his fingertips through her hair. It was the same texture, the usual mild dryness that tickled his scabrous skin.

Asami whispered gently to her ears, in a velvety lullaby chant. – "You can rest now. Go to where your freedom is." – And took the piece of paper which now freed from her hand with no difficulty. Despite the smeared red vivid ink, the entrepreneur found no challenge in reading it:

_To Ryuichi_

_ Forgive me for being so selfish. Knowing that you loved me was like a poison. But I was already rotted. There's no turning back. Please grant me one last wish. Forgive my selfishness. Find him. He needs you more than I ever did. Find Akihito. Find him Ryuichi._

_ Please be happy. _

*_*_*_*_*_*VF*_*_*_*_*_*_*

When Kirishima came back to the room, Asami had already left. Nurses were going in and out and gossiping among them. A continuous, monotone song lingered in the air. The heart monitor displayed a solid straight line.

In the same hall, just a few meters away, another comatose patient had just opened his eyes.

His name was written on the record sheet hanging at the end of the bed. It read _Takaba Akihito_.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Wheel of Fortune

**Pairing: **_Asami x Akihito (so far)_

**Rating:** _PG-13__ for this chapter_

**Summary:**_There's no way to know who the real you is. Akihito, a photography student, struggles to find himself within his own mind. Asami fights his own demons as he tries to fulfill one last dying wish. When their paths cross, reality turns into a sea of illusions._

**Warnings:** _Possible spoilers for minor situations, nothing major; smex (for what else should I write fanfiction? :P); AU with possible OOC._

**Disclaimer:**_ The characters from the Finder series do NOT belong to me. This also applies to anything related to this series. Any similarity with real world situations is pure coincidence._

**Author's note: **_Finally finished chapter 1! Thanks my beta so much for doing a wonderful job in correcting my text *bows*. University is starting to get crazy (I never hated electricity so much in my life) and since I started another part-time job, I'll probably have less time to write *cries*.__My idea for this chapter was to introduce new characters and also let you get some insights about our main guys. I love to put things "between the lines", so if you have any theory you would like to share or see developing, feel free to tell me. __Hope you will enjoy it! Reviews are love__ 3_

**Chapter 1 – The Wheel of Fortune**

(_5 years later)_

_"… now the opening news: a 23 year old female university student committed suicide last night by jumping from a 31 story high building. The victim, whose name was requested to remain anonymous, was said to be an exemplar, honour student and was supposed to graduate in June. The parents of the victim claim she displayed no visible signs of depression and apparently, there was no death note left behind. The victim was dressed casually and a camera was hung around her neck. The police are now investigating the photographs…"_

Akihito changed the channel, the morning news being too depressing for being only 7:00 AM. The remaining available programs didn't catch his attention either: more news, variety shows that weren't funny and old Korean dramas. Maybe it was too early to have something decent and worth watching on television. Turning off the TV, Akihito sat on the edge of the bed, a packet of chocolate coated biscuits laid on the nightstand beside him, ready to be devoured.

Getting out of the bed, the blond boy picked up his vintage jeans from the floor, where he discarded them the previous night, and dressed in a quick fashion. It wasn't the best looking pair, being faded and worn, but they were extremely comfortable, and a bargain, so there was no way that they were going to escape Akihito's radar. Although miniature pieces of snow were incessantly hitting the window pane (and melting into small pools of clear water), the temperature inside the room was pretty warm. The heater must have been on the whole night. His gray T-shirt lay sadly forgotten on the carpeted floor.

On the same bed, a young woman was sleeping, mumbling a string of nonsensical words, probably in the midst of a dream or on the verge of waking. Akihito pulled a blanket over her nude shoulders. Her peaceful sleeping face made her look younger than she actually was and her skin was well taken care of: fairly tanned and with no imperfections. He always wondered where she got that tan and how she managed to keep it. Well, she also asked him countless times why he dyed his hair so frequently.

Not wanting to accidentally wake her up, the blonde grabbed his favourite snack and stood near the window, his eyes gazing the horizon, as if all those skyscrapers weren't there. The street lamps still emitted a rather fake golden light, and the sky was like diffused spectrum of different hues of blue, slowly turning to lighter tones. Akihito's stomach was starting to complain and hunger invaded his senses. He didn't want to call room service so the chocolate sticks would have to cheat his brain.

The brief piece of news minutes ago suddenly came to his mind. He wondered why the reporter refused to give out the name of the poor girl who had decided to end her life. No physical description was given either, the colour her hair or her height remained a mystery. The images of the not so unusual misfortune were blurred purposely to avoid shocking the viewers. They distracted the audience's attention instead with footage of the police nearby and the hectic medical staff.

Akihito didn't care about the commotion and the horrified faces of the unlucky witnesses. It was actually coincidence that he was the same age as her and he also liked to have his camera with him all the time. Maybe he knew her. Though she was a total stranger, they could perhaps have had something in common to share. However, there was no way to know that now.

The sea of blood she laid on startled him, pushing his mind to an even deeper hollow. To be immersed in that crimson ocean, he wondered how it would feel. Would he drown in all that red or would he be able to emerge as a new person? Just the thought of having his fate on the line, between continuing to live or dying, it terrified Akihito but also sparked hints of excitement within his own limbs. The blonde shook his head. Why would he want to experience the same fortune as that girl? It just seemed familiar, something he had undergone before. Maybe it was his mind playing pranks or the result of watching too many horror thrillers. Either way, he had no recollection of it. Akihito's memory was restricted to the last 5 years. Anything prior was like the wistfully abandoned pieces of a puzzle, forever waiting to be solved, yet no one capable of challenging it due to its difficulty. Sometimes, abrupt instances of a distant past would drift to the present "he", though he was unable to make sense of it.

His line of thought was disrupted by a warm body pressing against his back, a free hand roaming down his spine and a soft kiss planted in his arm. – "Eating Pocky at this hour?"

- "It's the only thing here that is edible." – He was so absorbed in the suicide case he didn't notice his fingers were smeared with melted chocolate.

The now awakened woman took them to her mouth and licked them one by one. A revolted frown was on her face as she finished. – "Too sweet. I don't know why you like to eat this. You could have called room service."

- "Maybe because I want to let _Sleeping Beauty_ continue her journey in dreamland." – Akihito withdrew his hand swiftly, now coated with saliva.

He didn't enjoy this type of contact. Yes, they were friends. They were _more_ than friends. He remembers dating her, inviting her to luxurious dinners and spending whole days together in her company. They met a couple of months ago, when she wanted to buy one of his photographs that were, at that time, being exhibited in one of the main art galleries in Shinjuku. Sex with her was good, nothing extraordinary, but satisfying enough for him to relieve his daily stress. She was his girlfriend, and they've just spend another night in each other's company.

Intimate touches, however, was something he tried to avoid. Yukiko didn't have the most elegant face in the world, though it was above average. She was older, practical and sure about what she wanted to do with her future. She could be the perfect lover, but Akihito felt something missing and it was him that was the source of that void. – "You should put some clothes on. You'll catch a cold."

Yukiko donned the cream robe that was part of the amenities of the hotel and lit a cigarette. It was her habit every time she woke up and Akihito grew accustomed to it. It didn't however disconcert him like it did this morning.

- "Which brand do you smoke?"

- "The usual. It's too troublesome to change." – She continued inhaling and purging the smoke, not noticing her lover's feelings.

- "I'm going to take a shower." – And made his way to the bathroom, grabbing his abandoned shirt along the way.

The young man hastily closed the door and turned on the shower, hoping the sound of running water would distract him from whatever his mind was trying to recall. Akihito stared at the person on the mid-length mirror. He had accentuated dark circles under his eyes and was a slightly pale. His sleep pattern had changed for the worse, insomnia being frequent these days and small fragments of broken memories insisted on appearing in the middle of the night (when he could actually close his eyes and get some rest).

Sometimes he was running wildly as if someone was chasing him. Sometimes there was a woman conveying a message he could never hear. Other times, there was a man. The shadow of a man that… Akihito grabbed his head, frustrated for his helplessness in recognizing that figure. The hot steam in the bathroom clouded the mirror, his face losing identity as time continued to run. The blonde snapped out of his internal conflict and stepped into the shower. The hot water relaxed his muscles and, for an instant, liberated his mind from all the dismay and uncertainties. However, there was one thing he was sure of after seeing Yukiko smoke – the man in his dreams was a smoker as well.

When Akihito left the bathroom, his lover was already dressed up and ready to leave. – "What took you so long inside there?" – Yukiko sported a pair of brown khaki pants complemented with a fuchsia turtleneck sweater. She had put some light make-up and her long dark hair was secured in a single ponytail. – "Never mind. I have a meeting this morning. Some Russian guy is interested in one of my client's paintings." – She worked as a curator, but sometimes people trusted her to sell their works. – "When will I have the chance to visit your apartment?"

Akihito spit out the first excuse his mind could come up with. – "I had a leak yesterday. My kitchen is my personal pool now. You know, it's a real mess. And it's nothing as you imagine it to be. It's just a small studio, nothing more. You won't like it, I'm sure." – His house was his sanctuary, his sacred temple that he wasn't willing to easily share with others. Only his two best friends – Kou and Takato – had been there and they were really close, like his partners in crime. – "We can go to your place next time."

Yukiko was in a hurry so she didn't insist any further on the issue. – "Fine. I'll call you later or else I'll miss my taxi." – She put on her long coat, almost touching the floor, gave a chaste kiss to Akihito and left.

The blonde, actually feeling a bit relieved, sat on the bed and took a deep breath. The sky outside had turned into a much lighter tint. Well, at least he could enjoy a proper breakfast before checking out.

*_*_*_*_*_*VF*_*_*_*_*_*_*

- "When are you going to stop reading the contract?"- Said the long-haired man, sat in front of Asami's desk, a hint of impatience noticeable in his voice.

- "It's because it's you who came to my office that I'm paying extra attention to it." – Asami declared with a most indifferent attitude, not caring if the other party felt offended or not. His bored expression soon turned into a smirk when he sensed the other man's intense glare on him, so strong that could literally kill him.

The man had crossed his legs and shifted his position countless times. He was clearly not comfortable in the suit he was wearing. His hair, of such natural black shade, resembled the purest silk strands that fell gracefully over the back of the chair. Any woman would definitely envy that asset of his.

- "You know one thing Feilong, you don't look _that _Chinese in those clothes." – And threw the contract to the desk without signing it.

- "Business going smoothly, humm?" – Feilong stopped moving, finally resigning himself to the imprisoning suit. He always thought that his _cheongsam_ were way better than these western outfits.

And Asami was right in one thing – his Chinese traits were extremely subtle, easily disguised or simply too intricate to be perceived. He could easily pass for a foreigner and much to his dismay, his elder brother Yantsui took advantage of his refined appearance for his own schemes. Maybe it was his illusive eyes, a borderline between lavender and cinereal – the blend of an amethyst and a hematite. If it wasn't for his father supporting Yan's decisions for the Triad, he would have fled from that infernal household.

- "What is the problem Feilong? Another quarrel over some toy?" – Asami lit one of his _Dunhill_, boldly blowing that poisonous smoke to show the other man he was invading the enemy's territory.

There was an unspoken resentment on the other man at the mention of his brother. A growing rage gradually stabbed his composure and translated in his whiter knuckles that were fiercely gripping the armchair.

The entrepreneur took enormous pleasure in pulling the strings of Feilong's sanity and playing with it. It was a shame that the little cobra was still hidden in the shadows, the accumulated venom corroding itself and gnawing at its own flesh. The Chinese young man was smart and often proved to surpass his brother in almost every field, from martial arts to firearms and even the art of deceiving. The only hindrance laid in the fact that he was the youngest son, and family ties meant more than any other relationship. If possible, Feilong wished to sever all bonds that he shared with Yan. But once connected by blood, is there anyone who would be strong enough to dissolve it?

In Asami's eyes though, the Triad member was a sleeping dragon looking for the best opportunity to wake from the transient slumber. His conflicting feelings were binding him from ascending to beyond his own horizons.

- "Can't I just pay a visit to a business partner?"

- "So now the Liu family also sends personal threats to all associates?"

- "Only to the worst ones."

Asami liked that boldness. Though Feilong, had an effeminate aura surrounding him, he was actually quite manly. They didn't entirely trust each other, yet both still had some sort of mutual respect and regarded themselves as a mosaic of asymmetrical pieces, among them, alliance and rivalry.

The entrepreneur grabbed the _Yomiuri Shimbun_ that rested beside his crystal ashtray. He had read it once already that morning before Kirishima actually handed him a stash of archives. There was nothing out of normal, and Japan continued to remain the peaceful country it famed to be. His _Dunhill_ was almost finished.

- "Deliver the message Feilong. I know you want to stay here as I much as I do."

As he flipped through the recycled paper, an article caught his attention. It's odd how he didn't notice it earlier. The monochrome tones of the photo didn't do it justice. Inside the small frame, a woman sat on a wooden bench, her hands extended to the sky, welcoming something invisible that only she could see. The photo was taken from a side perspective and apart from her lips, her long bangs shadowed her face. It exuded a perplexing serenity that made him think.

- "Yan wants to have access to the routes for the Russians."

The photograph was certainly taken by experienced hands and the person knew how to convey the most pertinent message at the most befitting moment. There was some sort of play between the shades and tints. The woman looked as if she was whispering some unclear plea, calling for someone. Such talent was wasted in a simple recycled page of a newspaper.

- "Getting greedy, aren't we?"

Feilong felt it was useless to have come to Asami's office in the first place. The man in front of him wouldn't be foolish enough to yield to his brother's reign. The stoic gaze directed at him confirmed his premise. The sleeping dragon got up, ready to leave. He had promised Tao, his angelic caretaker, to take him around Tokyo as a reward for faring well at his studies. They both didn't bother to direct a mutual word of farewell until Feilong touched the doorknob.

- "When will you stop living behind his back Feilong?"

The younger man felt insulted (although those words had struck him painfully, like gouging a fresh wound). He wanted to deny it. Oh, he wanted so much to be liberated from those blood shackles. He would not turn his back now and give the other man the pleasure to see him shatter. One day he would come back stronger. Much _stronger_.

Asami called Kirishima, his mind back to the newspaper. The secretary listened carefully to his employer's orders, his memory registering all the minor details. He believed it was some mistake from his part but Asami's voice had a certain uneasiness and… vulnerability?

Asami wasn't engrossed by the content of the picture (yet he admitted it was something worth praising). The long body of text interested him even less. In the lower corner of the photo, almost obscured by the unflattening contour the editor had chosen, the author of that light drawing was revealed. A common signature with no surname, neither short nor long. The entrepreneur read it and it resonated in his ears.

- "Akihito…."


End file.
